He wiped off his boots on the rushes beside the door, wringing out his dark hair so that water fell in splatters. The fire was new and roaring, flames lapping upward. And then, as he moved to a stool and slid it close to the flame, he heard the rustling of fabric.
Sitting before the heat, his eyes following the rustling to the woolen blanket strung up to conceal Catriona’s corner of the cottage. He froze, unable to look away. A crack in the linen where she had pulled it to the end of its rope allowed him a sliver of a view.
He was a letch, a rogue, and yet, he couldn’t look away as Catriona dropped a dry chemise over her naked breasts, her flat stomach, her rounded hips… Ah, he was at full mast almost in an instant, his maypole frustratingly stiff, never having fully relaxed to begin with.
Aye, no chivalry you have, he scolded himself, turning back to the fire.
But his mind betrayed him. The image stayed branded in his thoughts, even though he could hear the rustling of her bodice and fresh, woolen skirts being adjusted. But that image of her breasts, so lush… He held his breath, closed his eyes, and clenched his jaw to will himself to think about something else. Anything else.
“I’m going to marry the lass someday…” If you’re nay careful, you’re going to swive the lass and ruin all chances of that marriage you’re too scared to request…
He should have returned to the castle right away. He should never have come inside. Frustrated, he shoved to his feet, scraping the stool legs, and marched to a window.
The shutters were drawn against the rain, water dripping through them down the wall to the rushes. He tossed them open and sucked in a cool breath. It was dusk. There was no telling where Beth or Stephen were. He turned around, knowing he still stood shamefully erect and was unable to hide it. She was staring at him. Her eyes dropped to his lap—how could they not? By the blush on her face, he knew that she knew what it meant.
“Fok,” he whispered, exhaling. He tugged at his tunic collar, feeling as if the garment were a noose. “I eh, I needs return to Murray. Good day, Caty.”
Bloody hell. He had used his pet name for her, when he had kept it to himself all these years. He marched to the door, angered at himself. He was wound so tight. He needed an escape. He couldn’t turn around and pull her into his arms as Gregor had tried earlier that afternoon, even if he could see curiosity in her eyes.
He landed a foot out the door, still in his soaking clothes, when he gave a final look back. She was standing before the hearth, her hair pulled back in a practical braid that did nothing but expose her sleek neck, a neck he wished to kiss. And she was watching him leave, hurt on her brow. Did she wish him to stay? Did she know how much he wanted her? How much he had always wanted her? Did she know how much it had hurt to see her in Gregor’s arms?
Fury unchecked. That was the red he had seen and felt, watching Gregor attempt to impose his prowess on her. And rage that he couldn’t beat the shite out of the man.
“Why must you leave so soon?” she asked, as if she knew she had his attention.
He swallowed. Paused. “Because I wish to bed you, and that’s nay what you need after such a liaison with Murray’s son.”
With the words thrown out to her, he dodged any further questioning and dragged shut the door.
Stunned to silence, Catriona stared at his back as he pulled shut the door. Eachann wanted to bed her? Aye, of course he does, you daftie, she said to herself, running a hand over her stomach. She had seen his burgeoning manhood beneath his kilt.
And yet, he had harbored enough propriety to comport himself with honor. He had resisted and left. He was nothing like Gregor Murray.
Still. As he had forced those words over his lips, his Scottish brogue had returned to his growling voice. And oh, how the rich timbre had rolled over her skin, caressing her. He wanted her. And he had been polite and left instead.
She closed her eyes, swallowing, trying to steady her thoughts as she mulled over the revelation. She was a peasant. Bedding with a man wouldn’t carry with it the shame it might a noblewoman. She was certainly old enough to lie abed with a man. She thought about it constantly with Eachann. Could she invite Eachann into her bed? Or had his proper manners, acquired in the south of England, ruined him toward ever engaging in such a tryst? Surely he had lain with others. He was a healthy man, educated, strong.
But would he do so with her?
And what if he did and he seeded a bairn in her? She knew that if he did so, he would honor the life he had created. She knew of his past. Of his abandonment. And she knew it had affected him his whole life and driven him to be hardworking. He would never abandon a child of his own.
Should she have at least offered to pack him a meal to take on the road? Traveling and miserable weather always made a man’s belly growl and even now, after so many years, seeing that he was a robust and tall man, she still worried that he got enough to eat. What could she do to make him stay just a moment longer? Why did she feel so desperate to keep him nearby, as if she wouldn’t see him again when the clan gathering was over after another day and he returned home?
“Hold my hand and I’ll help ye, lass,” Eachann said, his voice taking on new tones of maturity, even if it hadn’t dropped yet.
Catriona gave him her hand and he pulled her up the boulder. Together, they scampered over other rocks. They came to the top of the untilled hill and both paused. The view over the valley was scenic, the land in patches of different colors and delineated by stone walls enclosing pastures.
Eachann pulled out an oatcake from his pocket. He took a seat, propping his knees up. Catriona watched him as wind caught her untamed hair and blew it over her eyes and lips. She was hungry, for they had been out all the afternoon, now that chores were done and Eachann was released from the afternoon’s training. He would be leaving in a fortnight, for southern England, and her heart squeezed at the thought of losing her friend.
He would see the world, meet great men, gain skill and opportunity. And he would learn to read! Part of Catriona was jealous, though not maliciously so. She was happy for him. But reading was a luxury, and the skill would serve him well. It was such a blessing for him. He would leave this miserable part of his past behind and never look back.
Her stomach rumbled. Eachann looked up as he sank his teeth into the oatcake. He paused, crumbs dusting onto his tunic and clinging to his lip. How could he have heard such noise from her body? She knew how. He knew the sound of a rumbling stomach far better than most.
“Here,” he offered, holding it out to her.
“Nay, Eachann. My maw has pottage stewing. I’ll do well to wait until nightfall.”
She couldn’t take the food out of his slim pantry—his pocket. He and Stephen barely amassed enough to eat each day, and never had a surplus. Usually, they ate what her mother could spare them to break their fast, then filled themselves with a nooning meal in Laird MacLaren’s hall. After that, they went about their day, sometimes with something to nibble upon from one of the castle maids and sometimes not. Catriona had seen how the maid Maude looked at Eachann. She was three and ten, and all could tell that Eachann was going through the bodily changes transforming him into a man. The maid often tucked a cloth of food into his pockets when his work was done.
“You’re hungry, and I have plenty,” Eachann insisted with a smile, grabbing her hand and pressing the whole oatcake into her palm.
“Eachann, you have naught at all. I can nay eat your only food until the morrow—”
“Maude gave me five cakes. I have enough. And Stephen is bringing home carrots and roots tonight from the Widow Donald, for tending her dead husband’s flock today.” He shrugged and smiled again, his youthful cheeks dimpling. “As I said, we’ve got plenty.”
“But Eachann—”
“Do nay make me feel poorer than I already am, Catriona,” he murmured, looking out onto the valley again, wiping away the crumbs from his tunic. “I offered it. You’re hungry. Just…take it.”
His smil
e had vanished, humiliation blooming on his cheeks. Aye, already he developed the pride of a man, and she had insulted him by pointing out his impoverishment, reminding him of the shame his father had bestowed upon him, even if she had tried to be kind.
That night, Catriona came out to the byre with a jug of water. Eachann and Stephen were talking. She paused. It was wrong of her, but she loved to listen to them, when they thought no one else was around. They were so close, and almost never fought like typical siblings. They depended on each other for their existence, and Eachann had always felt responsible for Stephen.
“…but Eachann, there’s four oatcakes. Ye can have two of them,” Stephen was arguing.
“Ye’re hungry,” Eachann dismissed him. Catriona crept up to the doorway and peered around the slats. Eachann was prodding a flame in their fire ring. “I ate my fill this afternoon when Caty and I were hiking about. Maude gave me several, and those four are yours.”
Caty. Catriona had never heard him refer to her as such, but she loved it. And there were no carrots or roots brought back from the Widow Donald, she noticed. He had lied convincingly to her that day, and he lied to Stephen now. Eachann had given her one oatcake, and now he gave the rest to his little brother. How many times had he done such a thing?
His stomach growled. Stephen looked up with crumbs on his lips, much like Eachann had looked at her that day. Eachann chuckled.
“Your stomach growls. Come on, Eachann, have some,” Stephen argued.
“I’m always hungry.” Eachann waved off the concern and scooted back to his corner where he liked to sleep on a nest of hay. “Go on, Stephen. I could eat all day and never be full. Eat up. And get off to bed.”
Stephen sank his teeth into the remaining oatcakes and devoured them, cupping the cloth in his other palm as he sat cross-legged before Eachann’s fire. And she noticed, Eachann didn’t once look at him as he ate. He was starving and couldn’t bear to watch, but was too worried about his younger brother’s hunger. Instead, he traced his fingertip over a knot in the wood siding.
Catriona set down the jug and returned to the cottage, her mind spinning. She took the remains of her family’s bread and a wooden bowl off their table, then went to the hearth to ladle out pottage.
Her mother started to protest, for they barely had enough to eat themselves, but she dashed back outside before anything further could be said.
She peered around the slats of the cowshed again, noticing that Stephen was snuggling under his blanket for the night.
“Good eve,” she smiled, stepping into view and holding out the wedge of bread and steaming bowl.
Eachann jumped to attention, hay clinking to his clothing and making him look boyishly rumpled. It was rare she came into their abode. He furrowed his brow, and started to reject her offer.
“Catriona, it isn’t necessary—”
“We had extra,” Catriona cut him off and shrugged. “It would just go into the pig’s slop on the morrow if it’s nay eaten tonight.”
She spun away from them, set the pottage and the bread on the ground beside the jug, and bounded back to the cottage, her cheeks aflame. When she rose the steps, she turned back to see both Eachann and Stephen on their knees, tearing off bread chucks and sopping up the pottage like ravenous pups…
Before she could stop herself, Catriona grabbed a loaf of bread off the table and unwrapped some dried meat from a cloth. She ran out the door and back into the drenching rains, jogging along the sodden path to the byre. So many times she had done so in her youth, wanting to see Eachann. But now, she did so with the warmth of a woman desiring a man.
I need to tell him. I need him to know I feel the same way that he does.
She nearly blazed into the byre, but caught sight of him first and froze, backing up a step. She peered around a support post. Eachann stood bracing his hands against the wall. His head hung toward the ground. He was simply breathing, as if attempting to regain composure. And yet, he looked God-like, his broad frame flexed, his powerful legs in a commanding stance, and his dark hair hanging in wet clumps around his face and neck. And his scar… so bright and ragged. It gave him a feral edge.
He swallowed, rainwater dripping off his forehead onto the hay.
“Hell, but what’s the point?” he muttered to himself. “You want her and you always have. There’s no denying it.”
With his legs wide-set, he dragged the fabric of his massive great kilt up over his knees, then his thighs, which bulged with muscles as he held himself steady.
Catriona inhaled, only able to see flashes of skin that his plaid and his hand blocked from view. She stifled her shock, for Eachann thought this moment private. And he was thinking about her. His hand encased his heavy manhood and stroked himself from helm to bollocks. His eyes dropped shut. He groaned long and low. His hand continued to stroke, long, hard pumps, his throat bobbing as he swallowed again.
His head fell back.
“Fok, Caty, I want you, lass,” he whispered gruffly.
He turned around to brace his back against the wall. Catriona blushed at the sight of him, his beautiful body below the kilt exposed to her. Unable to peel her fascinated gaze away, she felt heat surge through her body and across her skin. His eyes were pinched, his lips were thin. Watching such a masculine specimen of man tryst with his hand awakened a fire within her. She thought she knew such a fire when she would think of Eachann sneaking into her bed, but alas, nay. She had felt a flame, a spark, the beginnings of arousal. But this? This was an inferno exploding inside her, begging her to throw herself from the shadows and approach him…
How would he react?
Deep within, she knew he would react favorably. Nay just favorably. She knew what men and women did. She was a midwife and a skilled one at that, expertly delivering the product of such unions. She had seen men and women engaged together before, for such was unavoidable for a peasant. She had watched her brother of marriage breed his sheep with one another to grow his flocks, watched bulls mount cows, watched all manners of animal procreate time and again. Eachann, if his lust was as strong as it looked, would welcome her interest and indulge in the offer if she made one. He would claim her.
Mayhap, after all these years, he already had, for she had been unable to forget him, hoping so fervently that someday he might return to Scotland.
He sought his pleasure now, arching further, letting out a rough guttural as his seed was expelled onto the dirt and rushes. He wrung himself dry with tight jerks, until finally he was spent. Catriona bit into her hand covering her mouth and watched as finally, he slumped back, let his kilt fall, and slid down the wall.
She managed to finally back away while his eyes were still closed and hastened back to the cottage, secured the door, and returned to the hearth to warm herself. She laughed outright. She needed no hearth to warm herself, and closed her eyes, setting aside the food she had forgotten to give him. She hadn’t thought about the reason why she had guarded her chastity all these years, but she thought about it now. No one had sparked her interest for more than just a passing fancy, except for Eachann. Her thoughts of what kind of man he was becoming had always invaded her mind, and when she compared her imaginings of him with the men wooing her, there had been no comparison.
And he had returned to her from England, unmarried.
He wanted her.
It was time to surrender her innocence. Eachann would respect her. She sensed it. He was the right choice. He always had been.
Chapter 3
Eachann sat in Murray’s bustling great hall. Of course the rains hadn’t stopped, but only increased on his return journey. He would still be damp in the morning, considering that he had been remiss to grab that dry mantle. His clothes were sopping.
He wanted to go home. And yet, he was dreading it. It was perfectly clear now that he wanted to bed with Catriona and make her his wife. Such wasn’t a poor thought. But Christ, could he have been any more boorish?
Such a lass, who spent her days hel
ping others, delivering babes, assuaging pain and illness, at least deserved his manners and aye, his request, whether she was noble born or nay. But instead of asking her to consent to his interest, he blurted out that he wanted to bed her, and then stormed out.
“Aye, ‘twas gallant of you, ye bastard,” he muttered to himself, surrounded by the din of tankards, men’s chatter, and laughter.
Now, how could he ever show his face around her without being consumed with embarrassment? There was no withdrawing the sentiment, now that he had said it. And she had nearly been forced by Gregor Murray that afternoon. Good Christ, I’m an eejit. Was it any wonder that women considered him such an awkward man?
He needed to move out. He could no more return to his brother’s home now than he could call Gregor his best mate. The answer was simple. He would move into Laird MacLaren’s barracks, as he should have done upon his return. He couldn’t make her uncomfortable in her own home, and no doubt, she would watch him carefully now.
Except, as he swirled ale in his tankard, nestled between two other knights while their lairds argued wool prices versus an agreeable trade of grain to renew the upcoming winter’s contract, Eachann looked up. Gregor’s eyes were upon him from across the hall. Though the hall was dim, the dark stone dank, and the torchlight smoky, he could see the hateful glint in Gregor’s blue eyes.
Aye, Gregor likely suspected that Eachann had known full well about his attempt to submit Catriona in the stable. Eachann looked back on the event. No doubt, his jaw had been tight, his posture offensive, even if he tried to temper his anger. And then he had called Caty “Catriona.” Not “Mistress Morganach.” Not “Miss.” And what had he needed to do out of doors on a rainy day with important clan discussions engaging all clan leaders? Gregor had to know Eachann had followed him. It was bloody obvious, now that he looked back in hindsight.
Eachann thought on Gregor’s final words to Catriona. “Indeed. We’ll meet again, my fetching Catriona. You may count on it.”
One Scottish Knight: A Medieval Novella (Perthshire Series) Page 3
